Like Dog Years, Only Worse

Since I have been a part of the working world, I have also been a part of the restaurant industry. Although this may be only 5 mere years in the grand scheme of things, I think that "restaurant years" are something like "dog years", only worse.  Everyone's job has stresses, but dealing so intimately with strangers is constant stress within itself.  

Forget the cliental for a moment, what I really wonder about, is the breed of people who place themselves to work in restaurants. Yes, I am one of them- I know. But, what is it about this job that seems to be found by so many... 'colorful'  workers? Or... is it the job itself that simply strips everyone it encompasses of their sanity, morals, and common sensical thought process?

My first job was ran by a duo of Jehova Witness middle aged women. One, who was "allergic to artificial odors", and another who would occasionally forget where she left her retainer. (This retainer was some sort of apparatus that held her two front false teeth.) No retainer, no teeth. Every day, we would insert a VHS corresponding to the date, press play, and this was our video camera security system.  Mind you that there were only 30 tapes, so at the end of the month, we would start back at '1' and hope there was nothing important documented on that tape we might need later. On months with 31 days... I guess we were just SOL, or something like that. Oh, and since this whole system was run on an ancient 8 inch TV and VCR, anyone could pause the tape whenever they wanted. We were punished for EVER sitting down, subject to have the schedule changed mid-week without notification, and every two weeks we were paid in cash rounded DOWN to the nearest dollar. 

My second job was owned by a married couple who, in the year that I worked for them, I saw a grand total of 3 times.  Now, although the daily work could be done by a group of 16 year olds with no supervision, the 'business' part of their ownership was nonexistent. They would order no bulk supplies, but send us to the grocery store every morning- then accuse us for their lack of profit. The Regional director was really the glue that held us all together. I loved this man to death, but he was just a little... off. He spent his days speaking to us in his interpretation of tongues, making ice cream sundaes atop his bald head, and searching for Zookeeper jobs on CraigsList, for he felt this would be a step up from where he worked currently. When the store Manager was fired for her lack to manage (at all) I was asked to fill her shoes, for Minimum Wage.  I was told that Minimum Wage was about to go up, so... that was sort of like a raise.  I may have been 17, but I was not stupid.  Needless to say, I left as soon as I found another job.

At this point in my life, I began to work in Corporate restaurants. Based on the fact that I still do, and hope to continue after this is posted, I will not give specific details as to the situations that take place.  Sorry, lets have coffee... I'd love to tell you the dirt.

Stay sane, my service industry friends... Please, I need you.

Robbbin

I have come to a point in my job that when a strange guest comes in, and I mean the minute they step through the door, I can sense them. I am not sure if they emit some weirdo odor, or if they all breathe at a weirdo pitch only I can pick up on, but it's something too great to ignore. 

Let me preface this story by saying that the time is currently 1 pm, and shift change is at 4 pm.

Weirdo alerts go off, and it goes without saying, Weirdo is led straight to my section.

This man is wearing a backpack, and headphones, which upon further inspection I realize are not connected to any source of technology. The cord is just dangling straight down towards the floor... probably at a desperate attempt to get away. 

I approach him and introduce myself as I typically do, and without ordering anything, even water, he lets me know he needs to go wash his hands and look at the menu before he will need anything from me.

Fine, somewhat reasonable. A little strange, but I will not write him off just yet. 

I see him return, but do not make any point to rush over and help him. It seems that he is busy emptying his wallet, and displaying it's contents to me, or anyone who may pass his table. Every business card, credit card, form of identification, etc... is placed precisely parallel to the end of the table, also perfectly spaced and aligned with the one above and below it.  

Okay. Getting weirder, but I am definitely allowed to talk sh*t about him at this point.

I casually walk past him a number of times to allow assistance, but only on his terms. After the third or fourth time he has gotten up and trekked to the bathroom to "wash his hands", (mind you that all the cards, his things, and his wallet are left on the table when he leaves) he stops me and asks to check the balance on two gift cards. Both are worth exactly $10.00. Once he receives this information, he uses his napkin to add 'Gift Card Number One: $10.00 + Gift Card Number Two: $10.00 = Total Money: $20.00.' During the documentation of this complicated math equation, he is interrupted several times by his cell phone. 

*May I please note that it is pink, and sparkly. It is a plastic, toy Barbie phone. It must be broken, for it only rings when his mouth also makes a ringing sound. 

So, naturally, every time the phone rings he needs to take off his headphones, and once Barbie hangs up, he can put them back on. I must not be of equal importance to Barbie, as he can talk to me just fine with his electronic ear muffs still on.

That's it, it's official. I have an serious weirdo on my hands.

3:00 passes, so does 3:30, and I am starting to wonder if Weirdo is ever going to order anything at all, especially before it is time for me to go home. I am just keeping my fingers crossed that maybe if he washes his hands eight more times that they will be clean enough to eat with.

At 4:00, what I say out loud is, "Alright, I just wanted to check on you one more time to see if there's anything I can bring for you, because my shift is over and someone else will be here to take care of you, but it is time for me to go home." What I say in my head is, "ALRIGHT WEIRDO, I HAVE WASTED THREE HOURS OF MY LIFE WALKING PAST YOUR TABLE AND I CAN'T F***ING AFFORD TO HANG OUT WITH YOU FOR SIX MORE HOURS IN HOPES THAT YOU'LL BE STRUCK BY SOME LIGHTNING BOLT THAT MAKES YOU DECIDE WHAT TO ORDER!!!" 

This makes Weirdo feel guilty, enough to order a side of fries worth $1.99 (which he immediately subtracts from his napkin ledger).  When I return with them, he gives me my tip, which is:

"One dollar, which is equal to 100 copper pennies. 100 copper pennies have a total weight of 36 grams, and a gold exchange rate of 13%."

What I say out loud, is... nothing. What I say in my head is "What. The. F***."

"Could I please get your name for my records?" *Napkin Ledger: 'Tipped Elyse: 100 copper pennies on August, 31, 2009.'

"For your records, my name is Robbbin. With three B's. Everything was perfection, In God We Trust."

Once Weirdo is finished, he packs his life back up into his wallet, puts on his backpack, checks in with Barbie one last time, and walks out of the door, and with any luck, out of my life forever.

Goodbye Rain Man - err... Robbbin. It's been a good four hours. Thanks for the dollar.

P.S.- I am not sure if these penny figures are exactly what he told me, but if they were, he was not necessarily what I would consider to be a credible source. Google it instead.